


Misery

by Fuzzball457



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Temporary Character Death, Wishes, Wishes Gone Wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuzzball457/pseuds/Fuzzball457
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's true what they say, be careful what you wish for. Dean learns the hard way when his wish comes true, possibly costing him his little brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misery

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this a while ago for FF.net and decided to stick it up here. Enjoy :)

Sam poked as his salad moodily. Dean sighed. It was always like this as of late. Sam was becoming a shell, slowing fading away. He didn't eat, he rarely slept and answers were kept to a two word maximum. And Dean knew why. The problem was, it wasn't just a problem that could be fixed with a hug and a big brother promise that it would be alright.

Because it wouldn't be. Because the problem was Jess. And it was tearing Sam to pieces, from the inside out. He was so wracked with grief and guilt and plain old misery, that there was no room to think of his own wellbeing or to even _function_ properly.

"So I think I might have found us a hunt," Dean offered up casually. Sam didn't say anything, merely shrugged noncommittally. _Go on_. "It's a witch hunt."

Sam looked up, slight confusion playing across his features, before he no longer cared and dropped his gaze back down to his uneaten salad.

Dean didn't dislike witch hunts, he downright hated them. They were tricky and dangerous. Witchraft was not something Winchester – or hunters in general- needed to know much about, maybe a small thing here or there, but it was typically avoided. So going up against it was like walking into war completely unarmed. There were so many curveballs one witch could throw…Witch hunts just never went off without a hitch. And usually that hitch caused some type of physical or mental harm to at least one hunter.

But Dean was getting desperate for a hunt and that was the only one that was relatively close by. As much as Dean loved driving, allowing Sam to sit for hours and hours stewing through his thoughts seemed like a bad idea. Dean knew that Sam was awake most of the night probably doing exactly that, but there wasn't much Dean could do about that short of drugging Sam (which, at the number of sleepless nights Sam was racking up, was becoming a more and more potential idea.)

So for now Dean would focus on keeping Sam busy during the waking hours and worry about the others later.

* * *

"Christ, Sammy, look at some of this stuff!" Sam rolled his eyes

"Witch, Dean." As pleased as Dean was to have gotten _something_ out of Sam, he wished that weary and fucking exhausted tone would leave Sam's voice.

So far the wicked witch of the west was AWOL. And it was pretty damn hard to kill something if you couldn't find it.

But Dean had to be honest, some of this stuff was pretty freaking cool. They were in the basement of the old house where there was some type of witchcraft workshop. True, some of it was gross - what was that floating in that jar? – but some of it…golden things that gleamed and rocks of various colors and shapes, there were even some feathers that sparkled. Along the wall opposite the stairs there was a big table with hex bags and beakers filled with mysterious fluids of various colors. In the very center of the table was a black cloth with a six-pointed star painted on it in white paint. In the center of the star was a rock. As far as magical rocks go, this one looked average enough. It was about the size of a Tic-Tac box and was a light shade of grey in color. There were no markings of any kind on it. It's simplicity only made it that much more complicated and mysterious. It could be _anything._

John Winchester had taught his boys many things. One of which was to never touch anything in a witch's home. You never knew what kind of curse was on the most common of things. But there was something about this rock that had Dean's rough fingers closing around it before he even realized he'd moved near the table.

He expected some type of reaction. Maybe the rock would glow or maybe it would break. Maybe Dean would suddenly be in pain or maybe he'd have cool powers. Who knew? Maybe a lightning bolt would shoot out of the sky and smite him where he stood.

The one reaction that he wasn't expecting was no reaction. The rock didn't do anything. Nothing happened. Dean was slightly taken aback. He supposed he should be counting his lucky stars that he hadn't just cursed himself, but more than anything he was actually let down.

"Some magic rock you are," Dean muttered.

"Dean," Sam called. Apparently he'd wandered into the next room and was wondering why Dean wasn't following.

"Yeah, coming," he said gruffly. He held his hand out to drop the rock back into the star, but hesitated then shoved it in his pocket.

The sound of crunching gravel could be heard followed by a car door then the house door. Sam came up besides Dean, gun at the ready.

"Speak of the devil," Dean whispered while he smirked. Sam looked over at Dean to confirm the strategy. Go to her or let her come to them. Dean jerked his head towards the stairs and Sam nodded.

Dean walked over to the stairs, keeping his steps light, and climbed them in silence. He couldn't hear Sam behind him, but he had no doubt the younger man was there.

They came to the top of the staircase and Dean peeked around the door frame to see a woman with longish brown hair and a tall skinny figure standing with her back to them. There was a brown paper bag – most likely from some store – sitting in front of her. Her hands rested on both sides of the paper bag and made no move to start emptying it.

"I know you're there, boys." She turned to face them, her face still a calm mask. Sam shot out from behind Dean and stepped through the doorway, raising his gun as he went. He fired off a shot which she skillfully sidestepped with inhuman agility.

Dean growled in his throat. He hated this…this recklessness Sam had lately. Constantly risking himself without giving Dean any forewarning. Apparently Sam was having a lucky streak because so far his riskiness hadn't come back to get him, but Dean knew eventually it would. This had to stop and soon.

She flicked a hand to the left and Sam's body moved with it, crashing into a cabinet. Dean raised his own weapon but it flew from his hands and landed across the room.

"Get out of my house!" she screeched.

"Sorry, no can do," Dean said, making a dive for his weapon. His body was flipped up so he was upside down and his back slammed into the wall. He managed to get his hands down to stop his head from cracking open all over the white tile and then he brought his feet down, landing in a crouched position facing the wall. Just as he got the weapon back in position there was the sharp crack of a gunshot and the witch jolted slightly. Blood began to seep from the shot right between her eyes and she fell to the ground, eyes still open in shock.

Sam came up besides Dean and offered his hand which Dean used to pull himself up.

"Nice shot," Dean offered. Sam just shrugged it off. "Let's burn this sucker and get the hell out of here." Sam nodded and headed for the car leaving Dean to get the body out back.

Now that the immediate threat was over, Dean allowed his thoughts to take forefront in his mind.

He wanted the old Sam back. The pre-Jess death Sam. The Sam who had helped him hunt the woman in white. Hell what he really wished for was that Sam had never gone to Stanford. Never broken up their small family. Sam had changed. There wasn't as much life in his eyes. More of a weary acceptance. He was stuck in this life and now he realized he was really and truly never going to get out. There had been a few months before Sam left for Stanford…months of bliss. Now Dean realized it was the calm before the storm. Hell Sam probably knew he'd be leaving soon and wanted to enjoy what time he had left with his family. But Dean had loved those months nonetheless. Sam and John hadn't fought over every little thing and things were peaceful, _easy_ almost. One hunt to the next. Besides an occasional sprain or pulled muscle, there were few injuries. Occasionally John would leave for a few days to do a hunt on his own and Sam and Dean would do one on their own, but over all they were still one united front.

_I wish Sam had never left for Stanford._ Dean thought bitterly. Maybe if Sam hadn't left, if he'd somehow decided to stay, things could have gone back to that. Sure Sam wouldn't have been happy about missing his opportunity, but he'd certainly be better than he was now.

* * *

After burning the body and cleaning things up a bit, they headed back to the motel. Sam was silent – wasn't he always – and stared out the window. Dean was dying to call Sam out on his risky move, but refrained. Sam looked so miserable…Dean just couldn't bring himself to start an argument at the moment. Besides, he doubted Sam would stand up for himself. He'd probably just take whatever Dean had to dish out, say nothing, and then do the very same thing on the next hunt.

So silence reigned over them.

When they arrived back at the motel, they still remained quiet. They each took a shower then crashed on their respective beds.

That was another plus side of hunts. Short or long, they always tired you out. And hopefully that exhaustion would help Sam sleep through the night.

It wasn't long before Dean himself was asleep.

* * *

It was a couple minutes after Dean awoke that he realized the ceiling he'd been staring at was a different color than the ceiling from last night.

Dean could hear the bathroom faucet turn on then off followed by the bathroom door clicking open.

"Hey, does the ceiling look different to you?" Dean said without looking at Sam.

"Not really, why?" Dean's eyes widened and he jerked up. Sure enough…Dean thought the voice had sounded different.

"Dad?" he sputtered. "W-what are you doing here? I mean I thought you…when…" John looked at him like Dean had just grown another head.

"Dean, what are you talking about? Why wouldn't I be here?" Dean stammered nonsense for a few minutes before giving up. Clearly something had happened. He could see now they were clearly in a different motel. Had he hit his head on the last hunt or something? Dean couldn't remember being injured…but maybe he was and Sam had called their dad…but no that didn't make sense. For starters he didn't _feel_ injured and second, if it was that bad that Sam didn't know how to handle it then he would have brought Dean to a hospital.

So then why was John there?

And also, why _wasn't_ Sam there?

"Where's Sam?" He was surprised it took him that long to notice his brother's absence.

"Sent him out to grab some coffee. Kid needs some time to get his head on straight." Dean frowned at the comment.

"What do you mean?"

"He needs an attitude adjustment. Needs to accept this is his life and that's just how it is." Dean's frowned deepened.

"I-is this about Jess?" Dean asked in confusion. Did John somehow know how reckless Sam was being? Though Dean personally thought Sam was doing pretty good as far as accepting the hunting life went. Hadn't complained once. After all, to have someone come along after a few years of living a certain way and just change it all? And that was part of the problem. Sam was too accepting. In everything. The fire had just completely left him. Like there was no fight left.

"Jess? Who's Jess?" Dean's jaw dropped. Was John going to ask who Bobby was next? Before Dean could reply, the door opened and Sam stepped in with his head bowed. Dean could hear the rain pattering against the asphalt before Sam shut the door and the noise was cut off. Sam gave a shake of his head, sending rain droplets flying from his long hair. He set the food and keys down on a table then stepped into the light.

Now that Dean could really see his little brother, he noticed the huge difference.

"S-Sam?"

Sam looked to be a teenager again. Seventeen or eighteen if he had to guess. His eyes weren't filled with that guilt and grief however there was something else there…some type of misery.

And now that Dean thought about it, John looked younger too. He hadn't noticed before because it had been longer since he'd seen John, but now that he really looked…

"What?" Sam asked. His voice was completely emotionless.

"I, uh…what'd you get for breakfast?" Sam sighed and turned back to the food before pulling out a few things. Sausage biscuits for both Dean and John and a cream cheese bagel for himself.

"Uh, thanks," Dean said while taking the offered sandwich.

"I think I found us a hunt, a black dog by the looks of it," John said. Dean was still trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

His first thought was a djinn, but this hardly seemed like anything that could come from a wish. This was just plain old crappy life. And besides, they weren't hunting a djinn, they were hunting a witch.

The witch…The rock! That was it!

Dean gasped and they both turned to look at him.

"You okay?" John asked gruffly.

'Uh, yeah…" They both eyed him strangely before John slowly began explaining the hunt. Dean wasn't really listening though, his thoughts were somewhere entirely different.

So the rock…how had it gotten him here? It didn't really seemed wish based, so what then?

"Dean!"

"What?" Dean asked as he was jerked back to reality.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, Dad, fine. Just got a headache is all." John seemed to buy it.

"Fine, get some Tylenol and get going, it's about an hour drive there." Dean nodded and John went out to the Impala.

"What's really wrong?" Sam asked quietly.

"Really, Sammy, just a headache." He could tell Sam didn't believe him. Dean prepared himself for the bitch eye roll and the 'yeah, right' followed by the 'I'm your brother…it goes both way…blah blah blah' speech Sam always dished out when he found out Dean was hiding problems.

Instead Sam sighed and turned away. Dean's brow furrowed. He knew Sam knew there was more to it…so why didn't he ask? It just wasn't like Sam to back down so quickly.

Sam started packing his clothes with his head hanging down. His shoulders were sagging as though the weight of the world was pressing down on him.

"So, what about you?" Dean asked casually. He may have no idea how he got to this strange alternate world, but he was still Sam's brother, no matter what world. And if Sammy was hurting, Dean was going to do something about it. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, Dean," he said softly, but Dean could detect a tiny quiver in Sam's stooping shoulders.

Without another word, Sam went out to the Impala. Grabbing his duffle, Dean followed behind.

He needed to figure out a way to get back, but until he figured that out, he needed to figure this version of Sam out.

* * *

Dean kept shooting glances at Sam out of the corner of his eyes. The eighteen year old was sitting in the passenger seat, staring longingly out the car window.

"Dude, quit looking at me," Sam finally snapped. Dean turned to look back out the front window at the taillights of his dad's truck in front of them.

Anxiety was quickly mounting in Dean. He wasn't entirely sure why. Despite the odd situation, no one was in any immediate danger and the hunt was only a run of the mill black dog. But he still felt nervous and wound up.

And apparently he wasn't the only one, if Sam's tightly coiled muscles and stiff posture were anything to go by. Dean wanted – _needed_ – to figure this Sam out. He wasn't sure why it was such a burning desire. After all, as long as he could find his way back to the real world, he didn't really need to worry about this world's-version-of-Sam's problems. But it seemed crucial to getting back.

Not to mention the problem of _how_ to get back. Dean didn't know what the "real" situation was. Was he passed out on a bed with Sam freaking out trying to figure out what was wrong while he ran around in his head dealing with the repercussions? Or was he really here – was he honest to God sent back in time where things were different. It really all boiled down to whether it was all in his head –whether someone put it there or not wasn't the point – or whether it was all actually happening. That was the problem, he didn't know what the "reality" was. If he was just dreaming, for lack of a better word, he could try and find a way to wake himself up. The problem was, if this was all real, any attempts to wake himself up would probably end in his true death. Perhaps the dream, or epiphany or whatever, would just end and he'd wake up like you would from a natural sleep? He just didn't know. And he could only take so many risks, lest he find out that this was all real.

But either way, he needed to figure out Sam. If it was some great epiphany, perhaps he'd wake up once he came to his great realization of truth. And if it wasn't, he might as well learn what he could about his little brother since his version of Sam (the 22 year old, broody one) wasn't talking.

"So, Sam, how've you been doing?" Dean asked casually. Perhaps it sounded normal enough, but Dean had to admit, it was a strange question to ask of someone you saw every day. Dean needed to know and he wanted to keep things calm. No shouting matches and no weepy chick-flicks.

Sure enough Sam turned to give him a strange look. But then his surprise faded away and a small scowl worked its way onto his face.

"Just peachy," Sam said sarcastically as he turned to face the window.

Anger flared up in Dean, but he tried to stomp it down. _Calm,_ he reminded himself, _a calm conversation._

"I was just asking, Sam! There's no need to be a bitch about it!"

A good way to start a calm conversation is by yelling.

Sam glared at him before turning back to glare moodily out the window. Dean continued to shot glances at Sam, who either didn't notice or intentionally ignored them.

And suddenly it hit Dean. Hit him so hard Dean nearly slammed on the break out of reflex. Sam looks around the age he did right before he left for Stanford. Maybe Sam was planning on leaving…maybe Dean was getting some type of second chance to stop his brother. That would make sense, he'd already concluded that the rock had gotten him here, but for what reason he didn't know. Because it obviously wasn't wished based – this was just regular old, shitty life, not wish granted. So maybe it was actually some redemption type thing…

Dean could recall with perfect clarity that night…how Sam and John had battled it out while he just stood there with his mouth hanging open…how John had eventually told Sam that if he left, he shouldn't come back – hell, Dean had even been stung by that one (because what right did John have to decide that without discussing with him) but Dean had still been too shocked to do anything but stand there as Sam, with tears trickling slowly and silently down his cheeks, left. By the time Dean had come to his senses and rushed outside, Sam was already gone.

So maybe that was what was going on. That was 'the big deal'. _What's the big deal?_ Sam had used that one time and time again in arguments as a rebellious teen. What's the big deal if I'm ten minutes late? What's the big deal if I want to do a sport? What is the big fucking deal if I want to go to college…true, Sam had never actually said that, but it was written across his face.

Dean felt very relieved at having finally figured something out. Now that he had some sort of footing, he could start looking into what type of rock could do that and hopefully get out of there. Or maybe he was just supposed to stop Sam from going to college (thus resulting in four years of misery for Dean and the burning of an apartment and a lifestyle for Sam) and let history (or future as it would be) run its course.

That seemed like a strange thought. Despite the fact that it was most definitely Sam Winchester, little brother of Dean Winchester, sitting next to him, it still didn't seem like the same Sam. This was Sam, but not Dean's Sam. This was an alternate version of Sam. But maybe, _maybe,_ he could move past that if it meant saving Sam from the total devastation of losing the love of his life.

As John's truck ahead of them signaled right, Dean realized he only had a few minutes left in the car. What better time than the present to go about trying to discourage Sam from going to college? First he had to figure out what plans Sam already had…

"So have you thought at all about going to college?" he asked casually. Dean was already mapping out the conversation. Sam would say he'd thought about it, maybe even chosen Stanford already, and Dean would say that didn't sound like a good idea and use his big-brother super powers to overrule any arguments Sam could make.

That was how it would go.

Sam jerked, like honest to God mini-flailed, as though he'd been electrocuted. He whipped around in his seat to face Dean.

"STOP THE DAMN CAR!" Dean had never heard Sam shout like that, hell that was practically a scream. It was like he was trying to get an entire room of people to listen to him.

Out of reflex, Dean stamped on the breaks and pulled off the road to the right. Before he'd even shifted from drive to park, Sam was out the door. Up ahead the black truck's break lights came on and he too swerved to the side of the road.

Dean got out of the car and, like Sam, left his door open.

"What the hell was that about?" Dean demanded as he heard John call their names out in the distance.

Sam stammered for a minute, seeming shocked by Dean's question, before he barked out, "Me? _Me?_ What about you, Dean? What the hell were you about?"

"I was just asking if you had any plans-"

"Yeah, Dean, I did!" The way Sam said it sent shivers down his spine. It was cold and betrayed and a release of anger that had clearly been pent up too long. "My _plan_ was to go to Stanford and hunt on weekends and breaks and try to keep in contact but no! It's all or nothing with you people! Trying to make me choose between my family and my goals, my _dreams?_ That's cruel. And you call me a traitor?" Sam snarled out in one long breath.

"Wait, you mean it already happened?" Dean demanded. Only after he said it did it occur to him that it would only make sense to him.

_I wish Sam had never left for Stanford._

The impact of the realization was so great, Dean stepped back a step. Of course! It _was_ a wish rock! He was here because he wished to do so ( _damn moron, don't you know to 'be careful what you wish for'?)_

So now he knew the why ( _stupid fucking rock, taking things literally...)_ he just needed the what. He still wasn't sure if this was all in his head and he was being shown what life would have been like, or if he'd actually gone back in time and un-done it.

Well the next course of action seemed simple: Finish the hunt, find a way to slip out and head to the library and dig up all there was to be found about wish rocks. Then he'd figure out how to reverse it - perhaps a particular baseball cap-wearing hunter could be of some assistance - then get back (wake up or whatever - it was all too damn confusing).

There was a tiny, curious part of his brain that really wanted to know what had been said that had somehow convinced Sam to stay. What would have had to happen to get Sam to stay? Dean interfering? More sympathy from John? Dean breaking down and screaming for his brother not to leave him - he'd sure as hell felt like doing that anyway...

Sam's face changed from fury to confusion and worry. "Dean, are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah…yeah," he added trying to sound more convincing than the first time. 'Let's go roast this baddie!" he said with what he hoped was his usual cocky grin.

"Alright, well, we're close enough to just walk through the woods from here. Dean, grab us some weapons from the trunk," John said as he tossed Dean the keys. Dean wasn't stupid, he knew that John was about to interrogate Sam about what had happened – and that bitch look on Sam's face clearly said he knew this too – but he went along anyway.

He jerked the trunk open, perhaps a bit harder than absolutely necessary, and grabbed them each out a weapon. He could faintly hear whispered shouts but didn't bother trying to eavesdrop. John would be hounding Sam about Stanford and Sam would be arguing back with the same points he'd made to Dean.

John's voice started to raise considerably, to the point that it was about average talking volume to Dean, who stood almost a hundred feet away.

"…just accept that! Dean!" he suddenly yelled, seemingly noticing that Dean was now listening. "Hurry it up with the weapons!"

"Yes, sir!" he called back instantly.

The air was crisp and cool and the dead leaves crunched under their boots as they walked deeper and deeper into the forest. Dean tried to focus on the hunt and the back of his brother who walked along in front of him. His thoughts kept jumping around only for him to reign them in then get distracted again. It was a never ending loop and it was driving him to the edge.

Dean nearly rammed into Sam who had abruptly stopped. At first he thought that Sam had seen something but then he realized that Sam had fallen back so he would be in line with Dean.

"I'm, uh…sorry about…yelling before…" It was supremely awkward and Sam didn't even glance in his direction as he said it. Dean remained silent. He couldn't help but wonder if John had put Sam up to it. It certainly wasn't a heartfelt apology.

"Yeah, well," Dean said with a shrug, dismissing it. Dean had learned over the years how to make his little brother talk. He simply had to dismiss Sam's apology while using a slightly disappointed tone and Sam would crack like an egg. Or the future Sam would anyway. Unless of course, he'd actually been brought back in time, in which case there was no future Sam, only the Sam next to him…and oh damn it was all so confusing!

"I really am sorry, Dean, I just…it's frustrating, you know? Well, I guess you don't know…but I-" Just when Dean thought he might finally be told what the hell had gone down that night, Sam stopped and jerked his view to the left.

Dean followed Sam's gaze over to the path where two red eyes glowed brightly.

The hunt was on.

 

* * *

"Down!" John's commanding voice hollered. In perfect unison, both Winchester boys hit the ground as two shots of iron sounded off above them. There was a howl of pain, but no thump of a dead doggy hitting the ground.

"Damn it! It got away!" John shouted. Dean picked himself up off the ground and, after checking that Sam was okay, went over to his father. He took up stance, raising his weapon, and asked, "Which way?"

John pointed off to their right and for a few moments there was dead silence as they all stared off into the dense forest.

"Should we wait for it to come back or go try and find it?" Dean asked. John opened his mouth to respond, but closed it quickly. He turned around to face Sam, who didn't notice the attention now focused on him. One long arm hung down, the shotgun wrapped in nimble fingers, and the other arm was wrapped tightly across his stomach. He'd adopted a thousand yard stare which was seemingly aimed at a nearby birch tree.

"Sam!" John barked. Dean cringed slightly at the tone. Dean had to give Sam some credit, he was right in the aspect that John was often harder with him. After all, Dean was never on the receiving end of _that_ tone, even when he did do something wrong.

Sam jerked slightly before looking up at them. Dean wasn't sure what it was, perhaps the angle, perhaps the way the moonlight hit him, but at that moment Sam looked horrible. Ill almost. There were dark circles under his eyes and his skin seemed pasty white. He looked like he'd given up, like there was no happiness left. God, he looked like he was _dying_.

"What?" It wasn't at all disrespectful or in any way snarky. Kind of weary like. In a _what more can you possibly take from me?_ way.

"Should we chase or wait for it?" Dean couldn't tell if John honestly wanted Sam's opinion or if he was testing him. Knowing his father, it was probably the latter.

"Oh, you want my opinion? I'm sorry, I didn't realize I had any say in things." Dean could have groaned. Oh dear…Just had to push him didn't you, Sam?

"Samuel, do not talk to me in that tone!" Sam simply stared with one eyebrow raised challengingly.

"Look, guys, maybe now isn't the best time…" A hunt was not a good place to fight. It was a good way for someone to get killed.

"This is between your brother and me, Dean."

"Yeah, but-"

"No, Dean," Sam said, finally talking, "I want to hear what he has to say. Because I haven't already heard about how I'm such a disappointment and a backstabbing traitor enough times."

"Well, maybe it's time you start listening!"

"Wait, Dad," Dean interjected, "you didn't actually say that did you? That Sam's a disappointment and a traitor?"

Surprisingly, it was Sam who threw back his head and let out a cold laugh.

"Right, Dean, like you feel any different!" Sam said with a sneer. It was a scary look on his little brother, one he would be perfectly content to never see again.

"Feel any different…" Dean was shocked. He'd never meant…and surely John never actually… "Sam!"

"What? You think I didn't see that look on your face that night, Dean?"

"What look?" Dean felt like he was losing his footing and about to plummet down the side of Sam mountain.

" _The_ look, Dean! That disappointed, oh-damn, Sam's-screwed-up-again look!"

"Sam, I've never felt like that-"

"Oh, really? You didn't exactly seem proud when you stood by and watched Dad – John," out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see John flinch as Sam called him by his first name. "screamed that I was a backstabbing jerk for wanting to leave! If I recall you just stood there and _nodded!_ Why do you think I stayed, Dean? Because standing there listening to you guys tell me that I was dead to you if I left, I knew I wouldn't be able to live knowing you guys hated me. Hell, you'd probably rather I was _dead!"_

"Sam!" Dean cried in outrage. This is what had happend that night? This was what got Sam to stay?

"Well then you wouldn't have to always save my sorry ass," he said, adding air quotes around the last four words. Dean cringed. Had he said that in this version of that night? "You guys just don't get it do you? I hate hunting. I hate this life. And I hate that you make me choose between my family and my dreams. You really think I want to spend the rest of my life praying that we all live to see tomorrow? You think I want to be dead before I hit twenty-five? How many brushes with death have we each had? A lot, that's how many. And some day our terrible luck is going to catch up with us and one of us won't make it. And you know what? I would rather _die_ that keep doing this!"

"Sam!" Dean hoped he'd stop soon, he didn't know how much more he could take.

"You like hunting, Dean, you _like_ it. But I don't. And I can't get up every day and do something I hate, especially knowing it'll never end. That hunting is what I'll do until I die – probably from hunting!"

"Sam Winchester, so help me God-" John started.

"Go ahead, Dad. I give up. You'll never understand. When we're hunting, all you do is point out my flaws, make sure I know what a failure I am. But you won't let me leave either! I mean, what do you want?"

They never got to know what it was John wanted because before he could reply, a huge black mass came sprinting out of the woods behind Sam.

_"SAM!"_

Two monstrous paws landed squarely on Sam's shoulders and he let out a cry as he was forced forward onto his stomach, one arm snapping beneath him. His eyes went wide and for a moment Dean could see the young child, still afraid of the monsters of the dark in the those wide, hazel eyes.

"Sammy!" Two weapons went off simultaneously. One hit the dog in the shoulder, but besides a small jerk, the canine took no notice of the shoulder shot. It had to be a shot to the heart. The other shot went wide.

The dog sprang backwards and clamped Sam's calf firmly between his jaws. Taking off at a run, the dog dragged Sam into the underbrush and away from their view.

"No!" Dean yelled, taking off at a run. He could hear John crashing about after him. "Sam!" Regret for things he'd never actually done flooded him. Whether this was _his_ Sam or not, this Sam wasn't going to get hurt on his watch.

Suddenly the ground was gone beneath his feet and Dean had to fall over backwards to avoid falling down the steep hill. There was a sickening squelching sound and Dean spotted the black dog leaning over something, his brother no doubt.

Dean brought his weapon up and took careful aim. He only got one shot, if he missed the dog would know they were there and he'd lose the element of surprise. John knelt down beside him and took aim as well. That way he could get off a quick shot if Dean missed, hopefully before the dog had time to react.

The dog lifted a paw above its head – Dean tried not to think about how that paw would be coming down to deliver a potentially fatal blow to his little brother – and Dean pulled the trigger.

With a howl, the black dog jerked back, staggered slightly, then dropped the ground, unmoving. Heart pounding in his chest, Dean leapt to his feet and jogged down the hill, coming to a stop besides his fallen brother.

The ground was stained a horrid red from all the blood. His wrist was a gross purple and the bone bulged beneath the skin. But the worst was his chest. The shirt was torn in several different places and blood leaked seemingly from everywhere. The deepest gash went all the way from the left side of his collar bone to just above his navel.

"Oh, God, Sammy," Dean said frantically as he pressed his hands against the gash. John dropped to his knees next to his sons and joined Dean's efforts.

"Alright, hang on, Sam." Sam just groaned and rolled his head slightly. Dean felt bile rush up his throat…this was bad, the slash went right over Sam's heart…this was really really bad!

"S'cold," Sam moaned.

"I know, little bro, but don't worry, we'll get you taken care of, okay?" Dean pulled off his jacket then his shirt, which he ripped in half and tied the pieces around Sam's chest. The air was cold, even once he put his jacket back on over his bare skin, but he ignored the sharp sting.

"We need to get him to the hospital," John said firmly. Immediately Dean gripped Sam under his back and his knees and hoisted him up. "Are you sure you can…"

"Yeah, Dad, I got him," Dean said, perhaps with a bit more ferocity than was necessary. A day would never come when Dean couldn't carry his brother. Through hell and high water, Dean would always be there to catch Sam. Just so long as there was a Sam to catch. John simply nodded and took back off through the woods.

The hill was a bit of a challenge to get up while holding Sam, but he managed – how could he not when his brother's very life probably depended upon it? – and once he crested the hill, they were able to travel at a faster pace.

"Dean…" Dean glanced down at the faint call to see Sam's eyes staring at him. "S-sorry."

"Don't be."

Sam took a shuttering breath then fell silent.

"Sam?" Praying he'd just fallen unconscious, Dean slid one hand out further and managed to grip Sam's wrist while still supporting Sam's back. The pulse was there, but faint.

"Dad, we're not going fast enough…he'll bleed to death by the time we get to the car."

"Alright, alright," John said distractedly as he tugged a hand through his hair. He looked haggard and, dare Dean say it, panicky. "Okay, I'll go ahead and call for help – get a helicopter sent. Then I'll get the med kit from the car and come back and we'll do what we can until they get here. You wait with Sam; keep him warm and try to keep the bleeding under control."

"Hurry, Dad." As John took off into the darkness, Dean sat down and leaned up against a tree, pulling his brother to his chest. He wrapped his arms around Sam and pressed against the wounds.

"Dean?"

"Hey, Sammy, you awake?"

"Hurts…"

"I know, hang on just a little bit longer."

There were a few minutes of silence, where every breath could be the last and every space between was an eternity.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Love ya, jerk."

"No, Sam, no, don't do that. You're gonna be fine."

"Liar." Dean pulled Sam closer to him and rested his chin on his little brother's shoulder. After a couple moments, Dean realized that Sam's chest was no longer rising under his fingertips.

"Sam?" He cried as he laid Sam out on his back. No breath, no pulse.

No Sam.

Dean forced Sam's head back and pinched his nose before starting CPR.

"Come on, Sammy, come on!" More breaths. More compressions. Repeat.

"COME ON, damnit!" Salty water dripped down his cheeks. "You know what? I wish you _had_ gone to Stanford. Anything over this! Hell move to the moon if you want, just so long as you stay alive!" This wasn't working. CPR was apparently a lost cause. Dean buried his head in his brother's chest and choked on the sharp air in his lungs. "Sammy."

When John returned two minutes later, that's how he found Dean. And when paramedics arrived twelve minutes later, Sam was DOA.

* * *

Dean jerked up so sharply his nose almost hit his knees.

"Dean?" a voice asked in alarm off to his left. The edges of his vision clouded black and his breath doubled. _Sammy…_

Sam was gone. Sam was _dead._ Dean's other half…

This was so much worse than losing Sam to Stanford. There, he was just a call away. There he was _alive._ Alive and not dead and how could Sam possibly be dead? _Was_ that possible?

"Dean?" Oh dear God, he was hearing Sam. Was he already that far gone? "Dean!" A hand jerked his shoulder back, causing Dean's head to roll back and face the owner of the hand.

"Sam?" he gaped. This wasn't possible…was this possible? Was Sam here? Was Sam here and not dead? Jeez…

"Yeah, Dean, you okay?" Dean lifted a hand a placed it on Sam's shoulder, soaking in the feeling of Sam's warmth beneath his finger tips. Warmth of life, not the cold of death. After a moment, his arms came up and pulled Sam to him in a hug…er, scratch that, a manly embrace.

"Uh, Dean?" Now Sam sounded worried. Why was Sam worried? He was alive, wasn't he? And that was a miracle in itself, wasn't it?

Dean pushed Sam back at shoulder length and just drank in his appearance, his not-soaked-in-blood appearance.

Sam was clearly older again. And even though he looked weary and tired, Sam didn't look ill like he had when…when they went on the hunt.

"Sam?"

"Dean, what's going on?"

"I was just going to ask the same thing." Now that he looked around, he recognized the motel they had been staying at when Sam and him had gone out to hunt the witch. And…and…the rock!

"Well I couldn't wake you up." Dean was slightly taken aback, that wasn't at all what he expected. "The day after the witch hunt, I couldn't wake you up. You had a fever and you kept mumbling things. Then a little while ago you kept started screaming my name."

"I did?"

"Yeah…"

Dean paused a moment while Sam fiddled with the edge of his sweatshirt.

"Sam, I…I'm sorry I was so hard on you about going to Stanford. I mean, it was a pretty damn big accomplishment and I get that you...you know, had to do it."

"Um…okay…" Sam stared at him as though he had three eyes.

There'd be a lot of explaining to come, but for now Dean was simply glad to be back. He'd gladly help Sam continue to fight on without Jessica.

After all, a Sam, sad and miserable from his girlfriend's death, yet still struggling through the days, was better than no Sam at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback is love :)


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